


Facts of Life

by UlternateFreak



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Awkward Boners, Awkward Romance, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Canon Related, Canonical Character Death, Dorks in Love, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Horny Teenagers, M/M, Marvel Universe, Sexual Tension, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-04-03 17:20:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 10,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21487981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UlternateFreak/pseuds/UlternateFreak
Summary: or, It Starts at a Funeral....A love story told in snippets:In which Harley isn't good at feelings - and Peter is too damn lovable to deny.
Relationships: Harley Keener & Pepper Potts, Harley Keener & Peter Parker & Pepper Potts, Harley Keener & Peter Parker & Pepper Potts & Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe), Harley Keener/Peter Parker, Michelle Jones & Harley Keener, Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark
Comments: 11
Kudos: 135





	1. Death

**Author's Note:**

> This piece has been sitting around in a notes app on my phone.  
Finally came around to finishing it, so that's an achievement in of itself.  
Atlas, it is only a handful of phone notes still in the works.  
Another day - another day.  
But I hope you find any sort of amusement and/or pleasure from this!
> 
> To Note: Chapters will range in size depending on the particular subject at hand.

Death is weird-

And it hurts, in a dull and fleeting sort of way, like an overworked muscle that throbs with a particular turn of the body. Never a constant, but there should you ever think to forget and try to move.

...

When Harley first hears of the news - having just been ashed back into existence only an hour before - much to Abby's surprise - he is shocked and...upset?  
Yes.  
Thoroughly.  
Though he doesn't burst into tears, and fall onto his knees before the television set. His heart simply shakes, skipping much like a stone tossed across a lake - once, twice - and before long, there's a phone leveled against his face. The stone now lodged deep beneath the lakes surface - settled somewhere between his kidneys and liver.  
And Abby - (not Abby?) - a stranger, older version of herself - is still crying - hysterics granted - on the other line with his mother. (Their mother).

"A-alive," she says into the phone, "hes alive-!"


	2. Funerals

Funerals are long-

And boring. But really - they're a hand in hand type of situation. Which tires the more you try to juggle it along. So you don't.  
You simply accept it - much like death.

Much as life is to death.

Much as Tony warranting death - in exchange for life - (lives).

"Hand in hand..."

He tosses a single rose into an otherwise unimportant, and unassuming lake once his turn arises. And though it physically pains him to do so, he does it - and watches as the rose drifts off into a small circular current.

The warrant, he supposes, is paid in flowers after Tony's parting.  
Which isn't right.  
And he wants to argue - outright to anyone willing to listen - that Tony deserved far better. A grand stand celebration perhaps - with twirlers in mini skirts and pyrotechnic feats. The works - and nothing less - for such a brilliant, and ecstatic mind.  
But funerals, in there entirety - aren't meant for the dead. They're meant for the living left behind.  
So Harley stays quiet, and falsely content, with the boredom that floods about him as the mourners grieve.

They're strangers.  
And strangers, he notes, cry openly - and willingly toss dead flowers into unassuming lakes.

"How did you know him?"


	3. First Meetings

First meetings are awkward-

Especially at a funeral, where one is half between wanting to cry and dozing off, and unsure of where the actual toilet is.  
And whether or not such a leave of absence is appropriate for any given time - or a particular time.

"Me?" Harley asks, though really it's a nonsensical response. For the other teen is looking directly at him - with deep crimson circles that tarnish an otherwise young, and endearing, face.  
He nods.

"Oh. Uh - we go way back. I practically saved his life."  
It's a terrible choice of words. And Harley can feel the tension manifesting off of the other in droves because of it.  
Each, a small and tentative slap that levels against his face.  
Slap-  
Slap-

"Once," he tries to continue, "-upon a time ago. Seems like forever ago, actually."  
Slap-  
He meekly looks across from him, past the shoulder of the still staring brunette, to Pepper who is mindfully glancing in their direction the same. She smiles - courteously, with a slight acknowledged shake, but turns back to the flock of strangers before her.

Strangers, by definition, to Harley - and Harley alone.

"Oh," the boy says, "That's - neat. Um... I'm Peter by the way. Parker."  
"Harley," Harley says after a second, "Keener. It's nice to meet you."  
Slap-

"I mean... - under the circumstances."  
Slap-

...

"So...do you know where the bathroom is?"


	4. Contact

Keeping in contact is difficult-

Due not to a lack of want, or really a lack of trying - (perhaps some-?) - but truly, to a lack of 'meaning'. In a way.  
And really, it isn't entirely Harley's fault in the end - he simply never considers phoning Peter, just as he had never expected to become some semblance of an acquaintance to - (with) - him either.  
It's just a day by day type of basic living for him - with Peter always reaching out once time has passed between them, and Harley not thinking anything important enough to actually bother Peter with.

"You're a real busy body-"  
"Or just forgetful - and boring," Harley laughs, screw driver ready in hand. "It ain't much of a spectacle, the ol'Keener life - not for a city boy like you." He casts a look to the phone still nestled atop the work bench - meeting Peter's face through the screen.

"It doesn't always have to be for exciting reasons, Harley."  
"Yeah," he nods, though really - he isn't entirely sure over the concept, and everything it is meant to entail. "I guess. Yeah, sorry-"  
"Its okay."  
It isn't.  
For he understands the small inkling of irritation behind the words. Can read past the questioning eyes that still regard him.  
And really, its unnerving - to say the least - having another person look to him for something that he isn't entirely sure he has.   
Or, for that matter, is willing to give.

"So," Harley says, pointedly looking away, "how goes Midtown?"  
...

"You are so much like Tony," Pepper remarks - on yet another video call. That, much like with Peter, isn't out of the ordinary - but rather, in ordinance to life - and given between his interludes of solitude.

"Am I?"  
"Yes," she nods, "time was always second - too definite for him. So he often ignored it. And for the most part, he was very successful."  
"For the most part?"  
"I usually broke him out to remind him of the outside world. And all its constructs."  
"Is that what this is then?" He says, motioning about with a cool slap against his work bench.  
She laughs, and nods - with Morgan still coloring besides her. "I suppose it is. And really - truly - you need to get out more. You should come for a visit-"  
"Yes-!" Morgan shouts, finally looking up since her first wave of 'hellos'. "We can play cowboys and aliens again!"  
"Just no paint balls this time." Pepper says.  
But of course, there will be.

Should he visit - that is.

"Would that really be alright?" Harley asks, "thought you were up in heels this season over the competition-?"  
"Please. Those Osborns' can't lay a finger on Stark Industries," Pepper laughs, "really. Isn't tabloid gossip beneath us?"


	5. Friends

Being a friend is trying,

And much like being in a relationship - it proves to have an amount of rules, and certain expectations, to abide to.

Rules that Harley, in truth, has ever yet to completely grasp - due, again, not to a lack of want, but really, to a dividend between he and his fellow peers. A divide that only seemed to pull further apart within his five year absence.  
Thankfully, with Peter, Harley hadn't found himself navigating by himself - learning, in truth, from Ned. Who, by all means and definitions, was an expert on one Peter Benjamin Parker.

"What are you doing?"  
"Nothing," Harley says, setting down a dark and slim notebook. Which clasps easily enough, the wired springs still neat despite the strained lining of the pages.  
"Okay. You need to lie better, dude," Ned says, "you can't just say 'nothing'. 'Cause everyone knows that 'nothing' actually means 'something'."  
"No - really-"  
It's a rather useless and futile attempt, with Harley hardly being an obstacle against the other - who easily reaches past him within a single stride.

"Notes?" Ned reads, skimming through a few short pages. "Are these about me?"  
"Some," Harley nods - curt and honest despite the odd resurgence of vile slowly raising within his throat. "I, uh - just like observing things is all-"  
"Ned's favorite things - rules and expectations - the many faces of Peter-"  
Harley snatches the book back in an instant, not glaring - but not smiling the same - and neatly tucks it away and into the satchel that's tossed across the bedside.

"You got a test coming up or something?"  
"No - don't be stupid. I just - they're just notes on things I want to remember."  
Ned nods.  
"I," Harley continues - though by now, he's looking at Peters wall decor, "my mind doesn't hold on to things like that, I guess you could say. So it's better to write 'em down. That way, I can manipulate my mind into remembering them."  
"Okay. But what's so important about Peter's face?"  
"-he confuses me-"  
The door to the room lightly taps inward, startling the two before the silent draft becomes apparent - with May's voice, undoubtedly, raising from the now opened doorway of the apartment.

"Peter-?"  
"Kitchen," Peter calls. "Harley and Ned are here too-"  
"Fantastic. Staying for supper, boys-?" She calls out. To which they answer in perfect unison, "yes-! Thank-you, Mrs. Parker-!"- leveling back to the room only once a conversation has sparked between the two in the kitchen.

"If I learn his faces," Harley continues, lowly, still by all means confused by the sudden need to convey his reasoning, "then I can tell what he's thinking."  
Again, Ned nods - and smiles - with a particular look that he normally reserves for Peter. Which, frankly, Harley catches easily without the need to examine and question.

...

"So what do you wanna do?"  
Harley takes a moment to consider the other, his eyes finally drifting away from the Hudson river and onto the boy standing idly by his side.

"What?" He asks neatly, "you bored already?"  
"No," Peter says, "I just - well, I figured you might want to actually do something while you're here. You know, something exciting?"  
"And miss this?"  
It's an easy enough turn - to look across the deep golden waters that surround the George Washington Bridge. Which is as daunting as ever in traffic, but oddly fixed in a sort of stilled - (and tranquil-ed) - existence.

"Don't you have sunsets back in Tennessee?"  
"Not like this. This here - this is art, Parker."  
A smile sets evenly on Peter's features then - his body leaning forward to drape onto the rail overlooking the waters.  
And though he tugs upon the sleeves of his jacket - his Iron Man Beanie hung low on his forehead - he looks, well - rather content. Which is odd - for Harley has yet to ever really see such a look pass over his face - but notes, and identifies, it easily for what it is.  
Wordlessly - though still lost somewhere between the new thought, Harley pulls at his own Spider-man beanie, covering the very tips of his ears.

"Didn't realize you were such a sap," Peter teases after a moment, which Harley suspects was - (is) - a precaution. A sort of conflicting pause of 'should I or shouldn't I say it'?

"Says the boy who cried at Toy Story 3-"  
"That's so unfair! Everyone cried at that - at least those of us who are human-"  
Harley snorts, and dispels a quick jerk to Peter's shoulder - which, to his surprise, is dodged rather easily and in rapid succession.  
"Hey-"  
"What?" Peter says, just as quickly as the initial reaction. Which, yes - is odd in itself - especially with the sudden change in his eyes, or more poignantly, how they come to rest - higher on his brow than before.

"Just impressed," Harley presses, "you got good reflexes-"  
"Oh," Peter nods, "yeah - right. Thanks."

...

"So, this is romantic."

...

Oddly enough, it isn't Harley to say the odd thing out this time around. And yet still he comes to feel the created tension, the tentative slaps that seem to charge off of Peter and back between them like a game of pong.

"N-not that," Peter begins, "I mean, I didn't bring you here for this - that - um..."  
"It is."  
Peter seems to halt, mind failing to register for a moment before he opts to look at Harley - truly - in yet another way that he has yet to see - (or know).

"Highly romantic," Harley laughs with a quick bump between their shoulders - choosing instead, to his own surprise - to look away from such a look, "however, food is meant to come before the romance, Parker."  
"R-right - yeah, uh - you feeling Italian or-?"  
"I was kinda thinking ice-cream."


	6. Attraction

Developing - and rationalizing - attraction for another human being is confusing,

And it sneaks up on you much like summer rain. Where one day its bright - the sun leveled high in the afternoon sky - then the next it's dark, with pellets of deep concentrated condensation slapping you against the face.

It reads to Harley much like this.

Where one moment hes simply watching a video of Peter visiting Prague with his class, and the next, hes visualizing how he'd look with a punch to the groin, and a kiss against his stupid looking face.  
'Cause hes posing, again - draped around an old, and quite odd looking, statue with the usual goofy smirk painted across his ugly mug.

"Wish you were here-" Peter says to the camera. Which initiates a gagging sound from either Mj or Ned, he isn't entirely sure which - (probably both) - followed by a distinct and direct flutter of words, "Get a room."  
That one, Harley deduces, is Mj - who harrows in a laugh before the footage promptly cuts out.  
And he agrees. He does wish that he was there - or Peter, here - though mostly there. (With Peter). Perhaps then, they could get a room - and he could, in lack of a better word...punch him.  
Deeply.

He replays the video.

...

When they do, in fact, meet again, face to face, Harley does actually come to punch Peter. Though its rather harmless, and in good faith - a sort of familiar greeting that is met with fondness and expectancy.

"Nice to see you too, Harles-" Peter laughs, mockingly running a hand across his shoulder.  
"Wheres May?" Harley asks, slumming in and dropping his bags into the corner of the apartment. "I have something to give her-"  
"Shes at work - what's with the flowers?"  
"They're for her" he says, "obviously. I saw them on the way over. Got a vase?"  
"Probably."

...

"So how long this time?"  
"Expect a week," Harley answers, hopping along onto the counter, "though maybe longer, depending-"  
"On?" Peter asks, pulling out several tall glass cylinders. He settles on a red one - which, yes, of course he does.  
"Whether or not Peter Parker keeps me properly entertained."  
Peter grins at him - and takes hold of the flowers, placing the bouquet neatly - or as neatly as he can - into the vase.  
"I'm sure she'll arrange these to her liking later-"  
"Right," Harley chuckles, "um - this - is, uh, for you by the way."  
Peter turns, and is handed a single stem that Harley had managed to conceal behind his back.  
This one, to note, is a particularly small yellow rose - with petals dipped a very shallow pink.  
And for a moment, following its appearance - the world seems to fall into a sudden and definite halt.

Then-  
"Its blooming-ful, Harles."

"That was terrible," Harley says - a snort naturally escaping simultaneously, "and you should feel terrible." But he hands him the stem nonetheless, glad with the way in which time seems to become once more.  
And Peter, still smiling, grabs a second, albeit much smaller, vase of a bluish variant.

"That reminds me - uh, this is for you."  
Harley stares down at the small cubicle box with mild interest - really, his mind sets to a weird state of awe which seems to quiet his thoughts altogether.

"Its from Prague," Peter continues, "I - uh, wasn't sure - you know, if you wear - I mean, just open it."  
He does - his fingers pulling at cool round spheres, tied closely together by three different strands of leather ties.

"They're garnet stones," Peter says, "the uh - Mj says they're real common and... Do you like it?-"  
"Yes. Of course. Thank-you."  
As before, Peter silences - and simply looks to Harley with a small, tentative, cool smile.

"I was kinda hoping to get you something more, but-"  
"The fact that you gave me something at all is - well, thanks."

...

"You're terrible at communication-"

Harley nearly crashes, momentum lost as he side eyes Ned - who, all the while, sits in seldom concentration besides him.

"Eyes on the road, dude-"  
He turns back to the television set, skillfully dodging the series of green shells thrown into his direction.  
"And?" He asks, 'cause really - (truly) - hes well aware of that particular tidbit. "What of it?"  
"I mean - I didn't," Ned begins again, "not to be an asshole, you know?"  
Harley nods.  
"You're just confusing is what I mean."  
"I'm an enigma," he says as he rounds another corner - Waluigi right on his heels with a righteous and boisterous laugh.  
"No. You're just frustrating," Ned snorts, "you've even got Peter on edge-"  
This time, the round of shells catch him - toppling his cart over and onto the edge of the road. Where, of course, hes been relegated back into 5th place.

"I've got Peter-?"  
"Hes a walking interrogation point. You've got him thinking and feeling - it's a sexual crisis, I assure you-" His voice off levels, slipping into a high octave that Harley presumes is meant to be a mimic of Peter's own voice - "hes just kinda hot, you know? And it's crazy - what gives him the right to be so damn pretty-?"  
"Um..."  
Though Ned doesn't acknowledge it - his eyes still too caught in the race at hand, and mind easily lost in the ruse - Harley flushes, easily, direct, and indisputable.  
"Hes so damn hot, man - I just - what do I do-?"  
"Should you really be telling me this?"  
"Course," Ned nods, finally - (thankfully) - returning to his natural voice, "but only 'cause it matters. Plus Mj insisted. And she's very persuasive."  
"Why?" He asks.  
"Not sure. Genetics?"


	7. Arousal

Accidental arousal is mortifying-

And it occurs most arbitrarily - much like an old acquaintance who comes to greet you with an awkwardly placed 'hello'. And though surely - one can act the part of thrilled and ecstatic to see such a face, the moment turns easily to ruin within seconds if not mentally prepared.

With Harley - such 'stirrings' are set into course one dark evening - in which the sight of a half-dressed Peter Parker nearly sets his heart into cardiac arrest.  
Certainly - however, he reasons to anyone willing to listen, such a reaction occurs due to the marathon he had just gone through, having powered a block and a half in order to retreat from the rain. And not - as reason and truth would seem to suggest - from the fact that Peter Benjamin Parker was - (is) - in fact, disrobing before him.

"Oh," Peter says, giving a sudden turn -acknowledging the boy still hovering in the doorway. "um-"  
"My clothes are in my bag," Harley says - shortly - a half motion to the particular bag in question, which lays in the right hand corner of Peter's closet.  
"R-right."  
He breezes past - eyes only betraying for a moment, and straying to the lines and curves of Peter's back.

It takes a moment to ransack through the bag once his functions have completely returned.   
Though the continuous sounds of shuffling takes heed, and causes yet another small moment of panic. A moment in which Harley becomes, once again, blatantly aware of Peter still ridding of clothes behind him. Notably, in exchange for something dry and comfortable.

"Towel?"  
Harley pauses, risking a look - a wandering eye that first levels onto calves - shorts - muscle - throat - then finally, a flushed face framed in stringed curls.

"Thanks," Harley says, not daring to turn his torso in fear of the heat that is dangerously pulling it's way into his groin. Building, essentially, and guiding into a peak that recklessly presses into the harsh denim of his jeans.

Peter, though he'll deny it, is a lot more physically appealing to the eye beneath the layers - not that Harley had ever cared to know really - and, well - not that he hadn't thought the other classically handsome beforehand. It simply is - (was) - in a sort of different light than before.

Either case - neither was important enough of a thought to actually voice aloud, less risk the consequence of being ridiculed continuously.

...

It takes a moment - possibly a period - before Harley opts - (forces himself) - to act at ease, pulling the hem of his own soaked shirt over his head, and onto the pile now assembled on the floor behind him.

If he flushes - its from the heat of the possibility that he is being looked upon in such a state - and not from the actual act of Peter taking shameless peeks between them. His own eyes marking fair, albeit slight peach-freckled, skin.

...

"Why don't you take a picture-?"

Harley turns about - his hand easily outstretched with a readied finger for the girl still slumped up besides him.

"Oh, wait - then you'll be a creep on top of a stalker," Mj says - pausing only slightly to regard the motion. "Hm. That's quite a pristine finger gesture from such a pristine little boy-"  
"Up yours-"  
"Now, now, sir - that is no way to talk to a lady."  
"Lady? I don't see a lady - do you see a lady?"  
"Nope," Mj laughs, "just a hopeless minor cursed with an excessive amount of adolescent hormones."  
"'Shut up-"  
"Hey. I'm just calling it as I see it. And right now, you're crowning-"  
"Am not," Harley says.  
"Perhaps not physically - but I saw that look - so the metaphorical erection is there whether you like it or not."

...

"What look?"

Mj grins - her face leveling to the right with a slight nudge of her forehead, motioning to Peter - who is sitting comfortably on the floor, across from Morgan - Lego bricks in hand.  
"Hes awfully good with kids, huh?" She asks, ignoring the previous question. "Practically like a big ol'soft teddy-bear."  
"I guess," Harley says, "what's your point?:  
"You interested in playing house, Keener? Or are you so enthralled by Legos that you just can't bare to look away?"

The finger arises for a second time - this one much more direct in proximity, and blatantly obvious than the last.

"Harles-"  
Again, Harley turns about - though this time, it's from Mj to Peter.

"What?"  
"We're supposed to be watching Morgan," he says - which yes, Harley's very aware of that. In fact, he had volunteered their services to begin with - Mj tagging along only due to having no better offer at hand. "As in taking care of her - and not teaching her 'that'."

...

"Put your finger down-!"


	8. Crushes

Attraction – physical or not - is different than to that of a crush-

Though both can be equally terrifying - and like death, they too, can sit hand in hand.   
And once accepted – once known, they can't be undone.

Just as Harley can't unsee the halo that sits atop of Peter's head like a magnificent crown.  
Which is unnerving, and illogical in every feasible way imaginable.  
And he comes to punch several more things - (outside of Peter) - in wake of the epiphany. If only to grasp onto some semblance of physical reality between it all.

He simply thinks it bizarre - being in-tuned to another living organism. How upon turning, one can immediately flutter upon sight, or even smell, alone.  
How - if Peter's found giggling, then he, himself, is smiling - or how if hes angry, then hes feeling a tad guilty - fault given or not. But the worst - far above the rest – should any feeble mind wish to partake in such cruel knowledge - is the hurting - and how often said hurting comes to fall upon the shoulders of Peter.   
A fate that is bestowed upon him due to his continuous tirade of wishing to act the hero.

"You're fine," Harley says, facing a deep rooted stain that is perpetually at home upon the off white carpet beneath his feet. It's brick-colored – though faint – and the size of a quarter, but still easily there should anyone simply look down.

"I know," Peter nods.  
He slips out of the mask - which is nearly in two parts - a harsh and deep cut running from the edge of his lip and into his right eye. "It'll heal up in a day or two,” he continues with a faint smile, “Three tops."  
The window shuts behind him - clicking softly in the absence of words as Harley continues to stare down the floor.

"Right," he finally nods.

The muted TV behind them is still reeling the highlights - another Spidey fight. This time against a giant lizard or another.  
'Kurt Conners', the newscaster had remarked earlier, a 'former professor of Midtown High – and current employee of Oscorp Industries' - who had been declared missing only a month prior.  
He, in truth, had been one of Peter's favorite teachers - a sort of mentor that had come to embrace his brilliant, yet oddly at times - fragmented - mind.

"They made it look worse than it really was," Peter says, offering a glance to the screen.  
Harley follows suit - just in time to see Spider-man - (Peter) - being swung aside by a monstrous claw that tears into his face.

"The mask held up well all things considered."  
"You're fine," Harley repeats - wishing, for once, to be anywhere else rather than here - (in New York) - (in Queens) - (...in the Parker's apartment).   
Hell, even Rose Hill would have sufficed. But he was - (is) - here. 'Cause Peter Parker calls to him - time and time again, and Pepper had gifted him a chauffeur, via the Stark jet, to ensure that the calls could, and would, be answered. (Time and time again...)

"I am, Harles-" Peter says, moving to stand before him - still bodied in the disheveled uniform.   
And really, what a uniform it is. Harley loves the suit, when cased in the right amount of lustful thought, but hates the sight of it the same.  
Its irrational, he knows, and slightly hypocritical - but he detests having to see Peter wear it. And a small rational part of his mind knows that the blame of such things lay in Tony Stark. Or more poignantly, his warrant - and what that emblem across his chest stood - (stands) - for.

"See?" Peter says, shaking his limbs like a child, "a head - two arms - two legs-"

There's a muffled huff of surprise - uttered forth by the lips that Harley pulls roughly against his own. And truthfully, it hurts, painfully so - but what else is new? - with a light trail of blood forming from where his lip catches onto a tooth.

He pulls back.

"May left a plate for you," Harley says, surprisingly direct, "it's in the microwave," and turns away – leaving the stain and the silent brunette in his wake.

...

When hes forced to deal with the issue - Peter's persistence out-wavering him to the point that he abruptly appears in Tennessee one afternoon - it's a month later, and Harley's both irritated and tired - with a streak of oil painted across his face.

"And it doesn't matter-"  
"It kinda felt like it did."  
"Well, it doesn't. Didn't. Either which way-"

...

"Hows your lip?"

It's stupid, how even now - with Harley glaring forefront – a wrench in hand, Peter still manages to offer him an easy going smile. Truly – it's a reluctance to raise back – a ploy to ensure that the distilled hate that Harley wishes can be true - is in fact, not.

"Stop," Harley says, "really. I'm gonna punch you in the face."  
Peter chuckles. "Is that what that is? I honestly just assumed you liked hitting me."  
"I do," Harley nods, a brief glance to his sneakers. And really, with Peter around - the floor just continued to prove so damn interesting.  
"But," Peter says, looking mildly abashed, but also highly scrutinized, "I hadn't realized it was about hair pulling-"  
"What?"  
"That's what that kid was doing to Morgan, remember? The one that had a crush on her?"

"Are you saying I have a crush on you, Parker?"

Peter laughs, teetering for a second on his soles before lightly meeting Harley with a small trace of his own knuckles against his jaw. 

"Maybe."

He presses the motion forward - a faux strike that only deepens the scowl forming on Harley's face.  
And this time, Harley knows - without a sliver of a doubt - that his blush is being measured and evaluated upon.


	9. Reciprocation

Having a crush reciprocated is far more terrifying than anything else-

Especially when it isn't outright said, but rather, implied in the silences between.

And really - at first, Harley simply thinks Peter is messing with him.  
For first, and foremost, it's the - now - familiar, rapture of knuckles against his face - second, but just as frequent, are the small nudges of fingers against his exposed skin - especially, but not limited, to the cool white expanse of flesh between his navel and waist. And finally, thirdly but never last, the occasional entwined pinkies should Peter ever seem to dictate an unsituated situation between them - be that uncertainty due to a bad neighborhood, nerves over a test, or simply Harley frowning over a large crowd of people.

In time - Harley, ever the sort, begins to suspect himself of being mad.   
Perpetually, he reasons, he is turning to madness. Which is made abundantly clear to himself one afternoon in which he reasons that he'd rightfully strangle Peter for making him feel so damn frustrated, but doesn't - (hadn't) - due to the simple and irrefutable fact that he'd miss him terribly should he'd accidentally kill him.

...

"You're doing it again," Mj says, eyes not straying from the page before her.  
Harley grunts, though remains as he is - staring down the brunette who is still standing idly by the counter, amidst a chat with a mildly attractive barista.

"Aren't you going to ask?"  
"What for?" Harley snorts. "You got a reaction lined up. So go ahead. Have at it."  
Mj, ever the the theatrical kind, smiles and turns her pad over - showing a crude, but still highly stylized doodle of himself staring daggers off page with a forked tongue between his fangs.

"My - what big teeth you have," she says, straight faced, before turning her pad back over to her own personal bubble. "But I guess hunger will do that to a boy."  
Harley grunts, but looks off again as Peter releases a loud and boisterous laugh. Which the girl, without skipping a beat, meets easily enough - sounding as every bit pleased by the ordeal.

"Her names Gwen," Peter says once he returns to the small table, bagel and coffee in hand. "Shes interning like me - Oscorp, unfortunately."  
"Oh?" Mj asks, "and she gave you her number, did she?"  
"How'd you-?"  
"Please. The whole cafe saw it. Isn't that right, Keener?"  
"Yup," Harley says, sipping at his tea.

"Sleeping with thy enemy-"  
"Sleeping - what-? No-" He flushes for a moment, and takes his bagel into two halves - one of which he places neatly before Harley. "Shes dating the son of the CEO-"  
"Oh, so you're a homewrecker now," Mj croons, "Got it."  
"Its not like that."  
"Could have fooled me," Harley grumbles, idly pushing aside the offered treat.  
Peter stares at him for a second.

"You don't want it?"  
"Lost my appetite."

Mj - still watching the ordeal with a pleased satisfaction- readily smirks, her eyes ranging between the two boys, before leveling at the stones that are still tied around Harley's arm. A gift to which she easily recalls back to - having, herself, explained to Peter the significance of said stones.

"Garnet is a sensual stone," she then says absently, interrupting whatever conversation that had crossed over the other two. "It represents primordial fire, the creation of the world out of chaos, purification and love."  
They both turn to regard her - each of a different expression. Though, in truth, Peters is the more interesting - falling somewhere between nausea and mortification.  
"Its a stone of strong, intense feelings."

...

It becomes wildly apparent, after that - that Peter's 'game' isn't necessarily a game any longer.   
Or perhaps, hadn't ever been.  
For the inclination becomes clearer - with Peter's touches lingering longer, and growing boulder - leading to small reciprocated approaches by Harley in the weeks following.  
Mostly, though, they are done in ghost touches - fleetingly against neck and arms - sometimes in small traces of his own knuckles against Peter's jaw. But the boldest - from his end - are the small tugs given to the belt loops of Peter's jeans. A method that had only come to light due to Harley trying to dissuade Peter from droning on about his new affiliation with one Harry Osborne, and Gwen Stacey.   
Again.

"What?" Peter asks, turning - in toll, keeping Harley's finger laced against his hip.  
"What?" Harley repeats.   
He tugs the loop once more - exposing the band belonging to a pair of Fruit of the Loom boxer briefs - which are characteristically red, in a very vibrant and not at all subtle sort of way.

"D-did you want something?" Peter asks, following Harley's eyes which are still keened to his exposed waistline.  
"Its more of a need really." He says with a crooked look. Though it lasts hardly a second before hes letting go altogether - smirk leveled, and eyes wandering off.

"Never mind. So you were saying-?"  
"Oh," Peter exhales, "um...I forgot."


	10. Jealousy

The act of jealousy is beneath those who aren't human-

Or for those lucky enough to find themselves within a healthy, stable, relationship - lacking any true continuous sense of doubt and insecurity.

Harley, unfortunately, isn't in such a particular state - nor is he less than human - unlike what he once assumed, and preferably wished.

In other words - he is often, outright, spiteful towards those who seem to linger onto Peter, damning boundaries and the likes in order to retrieve some hidden treasure that only he - himself - could ever hold.  
Which, yes - (rightly) - it's to reason such a gem would be sought by both Ned and Mj respectively - both having relations with Peter beyond Harley in regards to either time, or circumstance.  
Which, yes - again - is fine and quite reasonably sound.  
Though with the Osborn heir - or more poignantly, the girl who had been attached to his arm at the start of the evening - is less than so.

"Everything alright?"

Harley smiles - tightly - with a wine glass nestled in his hand.  
It's his fifth, (really sixth) - and Harley knows that Pepper has kept count, at least he presumes such a fact by the way in which she takes hold of his glass - leveling it aside and onto an empty table.

  
"That was mine-"  
"Technically its mine," she says, "glass and wine. Not that it should matter, you're how old again?"  
"Old enough to be at a Stark Gala-"  
"It's not that sort of party."

  
He nods, more out of habit than in answer - and gives into, what he hopes, is a single casual glance to Peter, whom looms by the stairwell leading to the foyer above.  
Hes smiling - tie neatly pressed and straight, with a deep burgundy blazer that accents the light summer tan of his skin.  
Gwen, of course - seems adamant on tugging onto his tie though, faking some semblance of alignment with fingers gently splaying against Peter's neck and jaw.

  
"Its a mutual treaty," Pepper says - looking elsewhere - really, forcing herself to give some semblance of space for Harley's own sanity, "we play nice with Oscorp, then we don't have a problem-"  
"Are they a problem?"

  
This time its Pepper who takes a tentative sip - retrieving her own - (new) - glass from a passing waiter, "there's been rumors - supposed testings of recreating the super soldier serum again. And - well - it's sort of one of those keep thy enemies close type of things. You know, just as a watchful eye."  
"Believe me," Harley says, "I know."

  
"Hes only doing what's expected, Harley-"  
"Oh? Then why not talk to Harold-?"  
"Harry," she corrects with a laugh, "and let's be realistic - would you honestly feel less threatened if it was he, and not her, who was with Peter? Hes awfully good looking-"  
"If you're into that sort of thing."

  
"I don't think he - or even she for that matter - is Peter's type. In fact, I'd say he only has eyes for a certain someone who should go and ask for a dance."

...

Its humiliating, the way in which his palm sweats against Peter's - the heat starting from the tips of his fingers and coursing into the lean muscle of his arms and neck - ending just above his brow.  
And really, Harley should have known better than to lead the other by hand - forcing others to part around them. In turn, receiving odd looks of casual inquisition.

"I didn't know you danced-"  
"I don't," Harley says, "well - not usually. Not ever."

Peter nods, and offers a proper arm as they come to a suitable spot.  
Harley, unsure for a second, takes the offer only after a prompted push - and guides his other arm into the small crook of Peter's back. Also, by means of guidance on the others behalf.

"Well," Peter says, "luckily May was insistent - else we'd both look the fools here."

"I guess I should have thought it through before asking?"  
"I've done more compulsive things," he says with a light lift of his shoulders.

The dance is slow - the music a light thrum that Harley is only vaguely aware of due to the rampant focus of his steps.

Which consists of the usual counts - learned only as a means of precaution from various YouTube videos.

"What were you and Pepper talking about?"

Harley - finally feigning a leveled look - smiles, "she was monitoring my drinking. For the sake of my kidneys, I suppose."  
"Are you drunk?"  
"Lightly tipsy-"

"Is that why we're dancing?"

The question takes Harley aback - the tone inquisitive, but direct enough to be read as guarded. He knows, just by the way in which Peter says it - that it's an out, sort of speak. A card to ask whether or not the occasion is but a mere drunken stupor - and not, as it is, an act crafted from where it deeply matters the most.

"No," Harley says, "I wanted to. Just...normally, my inhibitions are higher. And I think too much - so I second guess everything - in turn, I decide just not to do it - and-"  
"And you talk a lot?"  
"Yes," Harley nods. "That too. But-"  
"But?"

"With you...I don't want to-..."

"I try not to," he corrects.

Its the closest hes ever gotten - he knows - to those words which speak true, and never seem to be shared aloud.

Not from him to he - nor he to him. Or even him to him on most occasions.

That would be admittance.

Which, wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing - it just hasn't seemed to come up.

And Peter seems to understand that - by ways of eyes dilating, and body moving in close - incidentally, stalling the breath that Harley desperately tries to maintain.

"I know," he begins again, heart hammering as Peter tucks himself neatly into him - forehead just out of reach of parted lips, "its - we haven't really said..."

The clamminess of his hands persists on - fingers almost latching, as if the act of the letting go is too desperate and dangerous to give into. Even for a moment.  
Its as if this talk can only last in the present, and must continue unbroken - uninterrupted, before nerves become lost and thoughts uproot and dissuade.

  
"But - I gotta ask, because I need to know, P-"

"Peter Parker."

Again - Harley finds himself taken aback - although this time, it's due to the man in the sleek white suit - with eyes a familiar rich green, though aged in time and error - unlike those he had met before.

"Norman," Peter acknowledges, "hey - I - Harry said you weren't going to make it-"  
"Had a change of heart," the man laughs, eyes shifting only once Harley has taken a physical step aside - his arms leaving Peter, the moment now gone and nerves properly planted into the soil of his heart. As before.

  
"Ah - you must be the infamous Harley-"  
"Yes," Peter smiles, "Harley - this is Norman Osborn."

  
"Its nice to meet you, Mr. Osborn-"  
"No - no - let's be less formal. Any friend of Peter is a friend of mine. Please. Call me Norman, I insist."


	11. Superheroes

Not all supers are heroes -

Many, as a matter of fact, are villains - which, really - if one ever truly stops to think of it - is a reflection of natural progression within human evolution.

Be them whomever, or whatever, they are - if made of mortal flesh and blood, than a line sits between those who choose do wrong, and those who seek to do right. With the likes of Peter - (Spider-man) - an odd array of villains take root in New York - some blatantly opposed to the law, and others birthed by means of another's wrongdoings - but always against him - and, in turn, against the city.

"Human error," Peter remarked. "Some feel cheated - so, in turn - they cheat others. It's how it goes."

"You wouldn't though," Harley smiled, "even if that same line of thinking was enacted by law."

"Neither you-"

"Ah - I wouldn't necessarily hold myself to your standards, Parker."

The usual rogues - being that of thieves, murderers, lawyers - were overly common, minor and really often dealt by the police force when not necessarily in dire need. Then, however, came the larger threats, all seemingly contrived from comic book namesakes - such as the Lizard - once the Rhino - and even a Sandman at one point or another.

"I know you wouldn't" Peter continued, "'cause you know what rightfully belongs to you. And they don't."

As of late - being that Harley is enraptured by the reports, especially once hes back in Tennessee - as he is now - and nowhere near Peter, and his immediate safety - there has come to light, a more dominant figure known simply as the Green Goblin.

Which yes, is as corny of a name as say - Spider-man - but has become adamantly entangled with Peter - preferably targeting the likes of him, often in taunts and in direct fire.

Figuratively - and literally.

"Do I?" Harley asked, eyeing his phone.

"I would like to think you do."

"Well - I hope they learn to stop hurting you if that be the case - else I may have to step in and teach them a lesson."

"It comes with the territory," Peter laughed, "I'm sure it isn't anything personal."

Harley smirked - laying down a tarp over his most recent contraption - i.e. Peter's almost done birthday gift, a tiny nano-tech lens that may or may not be able to take photos of aerial shots, and personal acrobatic feats. A field of study Peter had recently begun to develop as a small side hobby.

That, and he's artistically bad - though fantastically willing - to take tremendous amounts of selfies.

"Well, I'm choosing to take it as such until they stop. Okay?"

"Okay."


	12. 'Friends'

Being 'friends' with Peter Benjamin Parker is dangerous -

Though 'friends' isn't at all well defined here - and truly, it borders dangerously close to something else entirely. A certain sort of entirely that neither boy ever cares to truly commit to. Be that in name, in shame, or simply stupidity.

In either case - by whichever definition is chosen - that sort of sentiment moves idly past Peter Parker, and attaches itself, instead, to Spider-man. Which frankly, is borderline lethal - emotionally, physically, and conundrum-ly in every feasible way imaginable.

"Reckless," Pepper muses - a day in which she had called a rather quaint assembly between Harley and Peter both.

It should have been expected - a call upon a random Tuesday afternoon - and yet both had shown up eagerly and willing. It simply took a single look from her to know that they were in deep shit.

"Really? Swinging down the Avenue?"

"I just-"

"Wanted to make a scene?" She asks.

"No," Harley says, "I asked him to-"

"No," Peter says, "I forced him to. I just wanted to show him the city."

"He has a plane for that-"

"Technically not my plane."

"Do we really want to tip-toe that line again?"

The pair look to the floor - Pepper now standing over them, hip locked against the counter of the desk. Shes fuming, though her eyes stay relatively calm and leveled, the Daily Bugle article still resting within the pad between her hand. It's a photo - one that takes much of the screen - with Spider-man swinging Harley Keener, _'possible heir to 'Stark Industries'_, amidst the skyline of New York City. _'Love for the ages? Or a ransom gone terribly wrong?'_

"Look," she continues. "I get it - really. I do. I imagine it was highly romantic and terribly thrilling-"

Peter flushes - with Harley continuing to stare down the carpet between Pepper's heels.

"But - and I emphasize the 'but' here - we cannot have personal lives merge with secret identities. Else Harley not only becomes Peter Parker's boyfriend-"

"Boyfriend?" Both boys muse, looking up to only a display of rolled eyes and an exasperated sigh.

"Honestly. Not the most pressing issue here. Just - be more careful, with whatever it is that is happening between you two, alright?"

...

Truthfully - to note, should anyone ever care for a such a detail - it hadn't been hard to speculate Peter Parker's alter ego. Really, Harley thought himself an idiot beyond idiot-icy for not knowing before he had.

But it had happened - and it hadn't affected their lives relatively too much. It simply became a fact within him - of who Peter was.

Simple and irrefutable.

Which is why Harley wasn't all too surprised by the sudden appearance of the jaded masked figure - the infamous Green Goblin, who arrived - via glider, no less - through a blasted hole in the ceiling of his workshop.

And though equal parts terrifying - several parts bad timing, and tedious - the occurrence remained rooted in the realms of foreseeable outcomes. A sort of inevitability that only time would rightfully gift with a pageant bow.

"What are you?" Harley asks - once the debris has cleared overhead.

"How rude," the Goblin says, "is that how you welcome a visitor, Keener?"

The voice was damn too recognizable - heard in passing, between a brief moment in time of a much more important memory tucked neatly away within himself. Though fundamentally, it failed to trigger any true sort of familial comfort.

"Polite guests use the door-"

"Ah, I guess formalities are out the window then - aren't they?"

"Seems so-"

"Harley-!?"

The vague sound of Abby shouting from somewhere just beyond the garage door rose into the night. A shrew and terrible cry that drifted in with the snow now descending from the hole between them.

"Why don't we take this onto the road?" The Goblin asks, "less we risk the consequences."

"What do you want?"

"I'm having a bit of an issue with a certain spider back in the ol'Apple. Care to lend a hand? 'Tis the Season and all-"

...

The George Washington Bridge stood in a brilliant display - the traffic tremendous and garish - with winds harsh against the suspension tower that Harley had found himself dangling above from.

Below - he knew - for the sounds were vicarious enough - were onlookers, who were so fundamentally enraptured by the entire ordeal that they had parked mid-lane, and were live-streaming to the masses.

"Let him go-!" He hears Peter holler - Spider-man now swinging back into view as the Goblin crossed over - the gliders engines just a soft thrum against the still deafening winds.

The game, by now, had become quite tiring - with the man circling about the air, a single arm wrapped around Harley's torso. Course such musings were inescapable from the sheer amount of bile still situated deep within his gut. Especially with the way in which the dark waters seemed to taunt his every look.

"Tsk - tsk," the Goblin mocks, his grip tightening tremendously - but moving outward to hover Harley over nothing but air, "I'd be careful of my wording, Peter-"

"Norman - please-!"

"Ah - so you do comprehend what that means-!"

Harley twists about - eyes rounding out and onto Peter, who simply stands on a beam across from them. He reaches towards him, barely evident with how the Goblin holds him back - but persistent and easily understood by the masked hero.

"What do you want?" Peter asks. And it's evident - the slight crack that works it's way up and into his throat. Terrible - really.

"Something quite simple actually," the Goblin says, "your very presence in this world, you see - has been a constant agony to me. So, I think it best that you leave it. Permanently. Else - your little boyfriend here dies."

Harley feels the grip loosen a fraction, and frantically begins to cradle around the Goblin's forearm.

With baited breath, he chances another look to the Hudson River.

"You know, Norman," Peter says, regaining both of their attention in seconds time, "up until now I've been real 'friendly' considering your problems and all. Even helped you and Harry out-"

"Very noble of you, Peter-"

"But when you start threatening, Harley. Well, then the games up, Pumpkin Boy-!"

The rush into action happens in rapid succession - with Peter jolting forward, and the Goblin swinging Harley outwards - a small ornamental pumpkin bomb lashing out against the steel beams - upon which, Peter had just resided on.

"The end is near, Spider-ling - why not accept it-!?"

Harley doesn't get to hear the retort that Peter surely has tucked away within his head. Where, he imagines, all puns and quips lay dormant - only to be awakened once the punchline begins to roll along. Instead, what meets his ears are the sounds of harsh bells - shrilling all about the night as his body dwindles out into a numbing and void-less unease.

Hes falling.

Fast.

With the dark waters looming closer and closer-

Though surely-...?


	13. Death

Death, Harley understands, is easy enough despite contrary belief-

Outside of the weirdness left behind for the living, that is.

And it's akinned to falling asleep for those in the warrant. Where upon one second, you're aware - living between the picturesque state of the minds eye, and the next, you're in a deep, silent, and cool state of absolute nothingness. With no remnants of having transferred in between.

And no care or sense of knowing of that transfer.

But then - at least in Harley's own particular case - comes a voice.

_"Harles-? ...Harley-?"_

One that is hoarse, and so pathetically pleading - that the need to promptly sit up takes root in his mind, pulling at him from deep within that nothing-

_"-n-no, I saved you, Harley - don't. D-don't leave me-"_

But it's impossible - for his body isn't there. It's merely a thought - a lingering notion of something that slowly begins to dwindle out as soon as it becomes close to being aware of.

_"Please - Harley, please - s-stay with me-"_

The voice only deepens, dropping into a desperate plea that only continues to gnaw at his will to stay in such a somber and calm world. And for the life of him - Harley can't place it. Not in a name - nor even in face.

** _"Harley."_ **

That time, the voice is different - huskier, though just as demanding as the first. And it echoes, rooted in a strange sort of heavy existence that seems to linger from just beyond his left side.

** _"Kid. You can't do this to him."_ **

He isn't sure if it's a thought, or an actual set of words spoken aloud - whichever the case, Harley turns away from it - knowing, in a way, that the first voice is his need be destination.

He follows it - seeking out its tragic touch, and slowly begins to feel the aches and strains seeping back into his muscles.

And it hurts - in a dull and fleeting sort of way - before blossoming into an agonizing consumption of pain and emotion, far harsher than the death that had greeted him before.

"P-peter-?" He says, his voice harsh and constrictive.

"Harley-! You're okay. Y-you're okay-"

He nods, still reeling against the strained and throbbing pain, but easily catches the harsh and wet kiss that meets against his forehead. Which slowly, but surely, begins to usher in the rest of his senses.

"Y-you're okay." Peter repeats. "You're okay-"

Harley simply watches the other, catching the same set of strained red circles around his eyes as that very first time they had met.

"Wheres...Norman-?" He asks.

"D-doesn't matter-"

He tries to turn about - sensing another need to, but can't crane any further than just beyond Peter's left shoulder. Which is where the older Osborn lays about, hunched over - with his glider-

"You're okay."

This time, the kiss is direct - and against bloodied lips that bruise and break under the contact. But Harley relishes in this turn of pain and tries to sit up once more - in spite of the hand that Peter places firmly against his chest.

"No-"

"I'm fine, Peter - mostly-" He smiles - fleetingly - up at him, with only an ounce of a wince marked upon his face. "Okay, b-barely even that...but I'll heal up in a day or two. T-three tops-"

"Don't do that, Keener."

"Keener-?"

Peter kisses him once more, bringing a soft and delicate hand to his left cheek as he does. "That's your name."

"Right," Harley nods.


	14. Living

Living is the most difficult aspect of life, especially after death-

And it shows in the way that Harley's body must physically ache in order to properly heal over.

Even more so when Peter tries to persuade him to keep distance between them in life, demanding said healing to be done in Tennessee. And not, as he would prefer, in New York City.

But Harley is persistent - in and against that persuasion - and rallies both Pepper and Morgan onto his side of things. To which they willfully agree to - if only to assure him the best recovery at hand.

And once the argument settles - a week having gone by between - (without) - each other - Harley calls to Peter. Who wavers easily enough, and arrives that afternoon with a bouquet of roses, and an iron man teddy in hand.

"I'm sorry," Peter says firstly, "t-these are for you. Just so we're clear and...yeah."

Harley nods, and accepts the bear with an easy going smile - which is a relief, he knows. For he hasn't smiled since the last time he saw Peter. Which Mj had helpfully pointed out the night before.

"I'm guessing Mj was around, huh?"

Harley nods once more, eyes going to the hand drawn card posted by his bedside.

"She gave me an ear full," the other continues, "said I was being an idiot."

"Last night?"

"And this morning."

"Gwen agreed."

Another nod.

"Which - by the way - just so we're clear," Peter says, "is a friend. Shes a friend, Harles. Mj insisted I tell you that as well. And, well - I mean, I get that I should make that clear. And...other things. You know?"

...

"He loves you," Pepper says - once Peter has fallen sound asleep. Morgan, now, somewhere down in either the gift shop, or the cafeteria, with Happy in hand.

Harley nods, offering the sleeping boy a fleeting glance. "He blames himself."

"Of course he does," she smiles, "its oddly tragic how the two of you take the worst aspects of Tony. Truly. How am I ever to cope?"

"Well, I like to think that I've learned to worry and be stubborn from the likes of you, Pepper. So there's that."

"Right. At least one of you is levelheaded then."

"So how goes everything?" Harley asks.

"Legally, you mean? Well, with Norman dead, Oscorp is out for blood. His son Harry seems to think it all a big conspiracy-"

"_Spider-man murdered my father_," he says with a frown - recalling the article posted on the Daily Bugle.

"Its all very fantastic, isn't it? Murder, betrayal - a young rich man on the verge of grief."

"Less we forget the boy who almost fell to his death."

"Doesn't exactly suit the narrative," Pepper nods, "but don't worry. It'll be handled very carefully. I ain't about to let Peter's name run through the mud."

...

"It is my fault, Harley." Peter says once Pepper has left the room. And really, again, Harley isn't at all surprised, knowing Peter's sleeping habits to an absolute science.

"Figures you were awake."

"I did this to you-"

"No," Harley says, setting down the jello cup that Morgan had gifted to him before she went, "that deranged madman Osborn did this to me. You. You saved my life-"

"I almost killed you doing so. Your spine nearly-"

"Hey. Peter. Peter look at me."

The other turns about, though his eyes take a second longer before they too finally come to regard him. And it's terrible, what Harley finds within them. Even with the uncertainty, the unknowing and unfamiliarity with that look - Harley understands it as pure as day. The shame - the guilt - the pent up frustration at having nearly failed again.

"I'm fine," Harley says, "see? A head. Two arms. And two legs."

Peter smiles - though, it's rather sad, and defeated looking. And his eyes are still scorned by that same handful of red circles.

"This was just my warrant is all."

"What?" Peter asks.

"I made a choice," he says, "when I decided to stick around for you. Even after the whole 'your Spider-man' thing. Or - to be completely fair, after the whole 'I met you at a funeral' thing. And...I knew, and understood, that Tony had died to save everyone. That being a hero like him had consequences-"

"This isn't about me-"

"No. It's about me. And my wanting to be with you, Peter. Even if you sometimes confuse - and frustrate me to the point where I want to strangle you."

He reaches over - tentatively, with the IV still laced into the crook of his arm - and brings his knuckles to align against Peter's jaw.

"But it's only because I'm scared for you - scared of you, too. I just - ...I love you, Peter Benjamin Parker. And I don't care if its dangerous."

Peter smiles, nodding into his hand like a dog with overbearing eyes that read too deeply into his own.

"And I love you," he says, "- Harley, I-don't-know-your-middle-name, Keener. Even though you use words like 'enigma' to describe yourself."

"Hey," Harley smiles, "at least I was able to cope with my sexual crisis."

"By punching things - including myself."

He smirks, openly, and raptures his knuckles once more, giving a clean tentative swipe to Peter's face.

"Yeah, well - that stupid look you make is always asking for it."

"Oh, believe me - it's always asking for a lot more than that."

This time, the kiss isn't as demanding - nor laced in the aftermath of death - its soft, and full of every fiber of being that Harley can bare to give.

And later, once the recovery is complete and his body isn't as broken as it still seems to be, he'll change that - and assure Peter that there remains a deep rooted hunger that has yet to be quelled beneath it - (within him).

Which, he supposes, is every bit human - as every other emotion and thought granted within the past year and a half between them.

He wants - no, yearns - to have everything even remotely associated with Peter. Everything.

...

"All of you," Harley says one afternoon - somewhere lost between the weeks and months following the Goblin's defeat, and the even more problematic Oscorp delegations. Which, not only served between hearings of the court - but also as a grand fiasco that nearly tore apart Times Square.

Harry, ever the splitting image of his father, had sought out blood in the name of the Hobgoblin. Luckily, for Peter - (Spider-man) - Gwen had talked some sense into the villain, convincing the other not only to back down, but rightfully admit to his wrongdoings and forgo the rightful treatments for his psyche available at the State prison.

If ever he felt even remotely inclined to love the girl, then Gwen had won that battle for Harley in a single afternoon.

"I want all of you, Parker," Harley continues, shutting the door behind him. With Peter still in his school wear. He hadn't known Harley would be there - though certainly the absence of May in the apartment had ticked him off to something amiss. "And by that, I mean-"

He tugs at the belt loops of Peter's jeans - fascinated to find the layer beneath, a deep rooted satin blue this time around.

"Harles - what are you doing here?"

He croons, fingers now moving past the loops and onto the dull copper plated clasp in between. "I was going mad back in Tennessee - I just, it's hard, Peter. Wanting you - and not being able to say it."

"Say what?" Peter asks.

"Do you want me to say it?"

"No," Peter flushes, trying with all his might to remain cool and collected. Though really, it isn't in his nature - and yet Harley finds it painfully endearing, and terribly unfair all the same. "I-it's more of a need really."

"Prove it."

...

Death is weird.

And life is inherently difficult.

Though love, Harley - (now, Peter) - understands, is the single most confusing and ill advised concept given in between. And it leads, by way of its constructs and ambiguity, every choice - every turn - and every warrant.

Tony's death, in the end, hadn't been paid in flowers - but rather in something much more indispensable.


End file.
